Chapter 396 - 279: Wandering Bedouin (Part 3)

Music offered him more than just a honing of his craft; it was a source of deep inner comfort and tranquility, as if the parts of his soul lost in the desert had finally found a sanctuary in its notes.

He soon took an honorable retirement from the army, and the Byzantine Governor greatly appreciated his years of loyalty and valor. Although his term of service had not been particularly long, the Governor granted him a generous reward—a small village nestled in the beautiful mountains of Cilicia.

Not only was the village scenic, but it also came with a tract of fertile land and dozens of tenant farmers—more than enough for him to live out the rest of his days in peace.

Cilicia was a region where many ethnic groups lived together; Armenians, Greeks, Byzantine soldiers, and local peasants all mingled. The climate was warm, suitable for growing grapes and olives, and the village was tranquil and comfortable, providing him with the perfect refuge from the desert.

Near the village where he settled was a bustling tavern where merchants, soldiers, farmers, and travelers alike loved to rest, drink, and listen to music. He became a regular, for the tavern offered not just wine but live music, and within its melodies, he could always find the tranquility he sought.

It was in this very tavern that he met her—a beautiful Armenian woman, the tavern’s Musician. Her fingers danced nimbly across the strings, coaxing out exquisite melodies.

Whenever she played, the clamor of the tavern would gradually subside, as if the entire crowd was captivated by her music. He would sit in a corner and listen in silence, feeling a long-absent sense of connection. It was more than just music; it was a current of emotion, a tenderness and solace he had never known on the battlefield or in the desert.

He fell in love with her music, and then, he fell in love with her.

Soon, they were married. In that small village, they lived a peaceful life together, far from the clamor of the battlefield and the sands of the desert. The villagers soon learned their story and knew that this couple were not only good farmers and neighbors, but also outstanding musicians.

The sound of them playing together often filled the village.

The girl’s narration came to an abrupt end.

"Keep going! So, how did they live happily ever after? Or did some villain pop up and steal their instruments? You can’t just stop there!" Belem exclaimed, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"And then... he was ’murdered’ by his own instrument," Laila said with a shrug.

Belem stared, baffled. "An instrument?"

The girl nodded, raising her fingers as if strumming invisible strings. "One time, at a big village feast, he decided to show off his incredible skills on his instrument. He played too hard, and—SNAP!—a string broke. It whipped back and struck him right in the face. He leaped up in shock, but his feet got tangled in the broken string. He tumbled off his chair and—SPLASH!—fell straight into a nearby wine vat. By the time anyone found him, he’d drowned."

"Well, that’s an unexpected ending." Belem’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

Eric, meanwhile, pulled on his reins, bringing his horse to a halt. They had arrived at Laila’s village.

A thoroughly dilapidated village.

A scrawny old dog at the village entrance caught the scent of strangers and began to bark frantically. It was so old its teeth were all gone, and its barks came out as low, raspy growls.

It barked with stubborn determination, but its head wobbled from side to side; its vision was clearly failing.

Laila dismounted, patted the old dog on the head, and calmed it down.

As the group entered the village, an uncanny feeling settled over them. Though it was nearly noon, the place felt like it was steeped in twilight.

Rundown houses were scattered haphazardly across the desolate landscape. The dirt roads were scarred with ruts and footprints, deep and shallow, and everything bore the marks of exposure to the elements.

The once-bountiful fields lay barren. A few lonely, withered stalks of yellowed crops swayed in the wind, looking as if they might topple over at any moment.

There was no one on the village paths. The villagers had clearly sensed the intrusion of outsiders. The Knights could feel eyes watching them from the surrounding houses.

Laila dragged the bag off her horse and shook it hard.

"What are you all hiding for?" Laila’s voice broke the silence, tinged with both teasing and exasperation. "I didn’t bring all this back just for me! Fine, if you’re going to be like that, I’ll eat it all myself."

The first to peek out was a small boy. A mop of messy hair appeared through the crack in a dilapidated doorway, his eyes shining with anticipation and excitement. "It’s Sister Lela! She brought back more food!" he couldn’t help but shout. He then burst out of the rundown house and ran barefoot to Laila’s side.

Laila began to hand out the food. Villagers emerged one by one. They were weary and bedraggled, but in that moment, a glimmer of light shone on every face.

"Alright, alright! Don’t be scared. The food’s here, and I’d rather not eat it all myself!" Laila said with a laugh as she opened the bag and pulled out several pieces of dried meat and bread. Like a magician, she swiftly pressed the food into each person’s hands.

"Sister Lela, where did you find this?" the little boy asked in amazement, taking a piece of dried meat.

"A bit of cunning and a dash of luck," Laila said with a casual shrug. "Not everyone on a battlefield remembers to clean up after themselves. There are always treasures left behind."

The little boy, Aram, grabbed a piece of bread and took a bite. His voice was muffled with excitement. "Sister Lela, when will you teach me to scavenge for treasure? I want to go with you!"

Laila laughed and ruffled Aram’s hair. "When you’re a bit taller and a bit faster. Until then, you don’t make the cut."

"I’ve been praying to grow up fast so I can protect Sister Lela."

"You little rascal, underestimating me?" Laila tugged playfully but firmly on Aram’s ear. "We Bedouin make our living with a blade. We’re not like you Armenians who only know how to farm."

Next, Old Haike emerged slowly from behind a door, leaning on a bent wooden staff. Though his eyes were weary, the corners of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. "You always come back, right on time, bringing hope with you," he murmured, slowly approaching Laila. His gaze, however, remained fixed warily on the Knights behind her.

Eric did a quick count: twenty-one villagers in all. Other than Old Haike, a man in his sixties, there were no adult men—only children and elderly women.

"Laila, they are..." Old Haike’s gaze shifted to Eric and the Knights behind him.

"Er... reinforcements from the Emperor, maybe?" Laila scratched the back of her head, unsure of how to explain.

"The Emperor... In Cilicia, anyone can invoke the Emperor’s name. Who even knows who the Emperor in Constantinople is these days? Every audacious fool with an army calls himself Emperor.

There’s nothing left here. Half our property went to the damn warlords, and they gave the other half to the very Turkic People they were supposed to be fighting.

They use bribery instead of battle to deal with the Turkic People, all to preserve their pathetic pride while they go on duping more foolish Christians in the name of salvation.

When anyone questions them, they just say that’s how past Emperors did things. ’Why shouldn’t we do the same?’ they ask. ’Isn’t this how the Empire has always achieved victory?’

But what the hell kind of victory is that? What’s the point? The Turkic People still come and go as they please.

My lords, leave this place. We don’t need you. Go play your tricks in some other village.

This village has nothing left to give.

Even if you were cannibals, all you’d find here are bones to break your teeth on and skin as tough as leather." Old Haike angrily threw his wooden staff to the ground.